


Lucky

by TigraClaws



Category: Avengers, Marvel, Tigra - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Hunting, Just a hint of relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigraClaws/pseuds/TigraClaws
Summary: Tigra plays a role, people know her for it, but there is something primal deep inside her that needs to run.
Relationships: Greer Nelson/Steven Rogers, Mockingbird/Hawkeye, Tigra/Captain America
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Lucky

**Author's Note:**

> First posting here of Tigra fic, just to get the ball rolling. Not really a relationship fic, but that's coming, I can promise!

Sometimes I run.

I run at night, after everyone else is asleep. I can hear them through the walls, my hearing both blessing and curse, hear when, one by one, they drop off.

Steve, his heartbeat slow and steady, breathing even, even his sleep the ‘pinnacle of human perfection.’ I imagine him, beautifully sculpted body stretched out, chest rising and falling with clockwork regularity, clad only in sleep pants and dog tags, soft curly, blonde chest hair and Greek statue abs. 

Bobbi and Clint, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, bodies naked and close for the shared warmth, his fingertips resting in her hair mid stroke, where they were when he dropped off to slumber, her hand draped possessively over his stomach, their legs twined together. Peaceful together during sleep in a way they never were while awake. Their love is passionate and tempestuous, if never smooth, and it sings to me, even through the walls.

When he’s there, staying at the compound, Tony in the comfy old easy chair in his workshop, a glass of melting ice, drained of whiskey, in his hand or on the small table next to him. He'd be snoring, eyes darting under his eyelids in fitful sleep. He never rests easily, his demons too noisy for that.

I can hear every shift, every breath, every whisper. I love them. They’re my friends. They’re heroes. They’re family.

I just wish I was one of them.

I try not to think about it as I exit an upper floor window, letting the near freezing air wash over me. My short, dense, silky fur insulates me, and my senses come truly alive as the scents of the forested hills around the compound hit me. Deep within me, pacing her cage, the Huntress lifts her head, ears perking forward, and she stills, knowing what’s coming.

Balance is the key to my dual existence. For them, for my family, I have to play the role of Tigra: flirty, funny, sexy, occasionally silly Tigra. Sometimes my temper flares and they’re reminded I’m not just a wise cracking sex kitten, but for the most part, they know who I am. They even think they know what I am.

In a blink I’m off, leaping the length of a football field and landing on the lower branches of an old oak tree with no more sound than a swooping owl, and then I’m on the ground, springing through the old forest, body leaning into the sheer physicality of running, of hunting, and I know, even though I can’t see them myself, a feral glint is in my eyes as I let the Huntress out of her cage, let her do what she does best, what she desires most. For the first few minutes I’m a sleek shadow darting gracefully through the brush, taking to the trees, leaping and running and just exulting in being Tigra. The forest is a dark, lush miasma of scents and sounds, as alive and awake to me as a shopping mall on Black Friday would be to Jan.

The compound is in the distance and I’ve covered several miles before I come to a stop at the crest of a hill. It’s a clear night, and cold, my breath steaming in the silver moonlight. I stand, running a hand idly through my thick, red hair. I can scent deer on the wind, and the Huntress roars in approval. Even I grin a little, flashing fangs behind my full lips. It’s a small herd, six I think, and the trail is relatively fresh, no more than an hour old. In an instant I’m off, following their movement and adjusting my angle of approach to be downwind of them. Their senses of smell aren’t as good as mine, but no sense in giving them unnecessary warning. In point of fact, I’m not even consciously thinking of it, the Huntress does this naturally, instinctively.

The air is just cold enough to sting my lungs, and the scent of my prey is like a siren song, calling to the Huntress. I spy the small herd as I land in the upper branches of a birch tree, dropping so silently they’re clueless to my presence

I was right, there are 6 of them. A young buck and an older buck, a doe, three yearlings—though I get the sense, given the air of a standoff, the older buck may not be welcome.

He’s a scarred old gent and I know at a glance he’s seen many winters like this. Smart, lucky, canny, but starting to slow, to get desperate. The strapping young buck he’s facing is far too powerful for him, but my sense is he’s probably not been able to breed in a long time. I respect him, admire him, but the Huntress licks her chops and I know. He’s my prey tonight.

I’m 60 paces out and I know I could make it in a single spring, make the kill instantly with none of them ever recognizing my presence before the deed is done, but I’m not just seeking meat tonight. The Huntress needs to stretch, she needs blood, but most of all, she needs to chase.

I roar.

It’s not my loudest, it’s actually pretty tame, but it’s a sound that stretches back to the dawn of time. It echoes across the hills, and every prey animal for miles is reminded what it was like to be in the darkness when the great cats of old prowled. The effect is like a bomb going off, and the little herd scatters in every direction, the young following the doe, the two bucks springing away from each other, their ardor cooled by the threat of death.

I leave the younger buck. He’s strong and healthy, he’ll breed this winter, and for several more. I’m here for blood, but unlike a human trophy hunter, not bragging rights. I’m fast enough I could run down and kill the entire herd. No, I follow the old buck, and the Huntress approves. The weak, the sick, it’s our duty to cull them, to keep the herds strong. He’s still a powerful warrior, and my ears catch the cacophony of his crashing through the brush, his heavy tread thudding down, and I follow, little more than a shadow to him. He knows he’s being chased, but I’m too quiet, too high up.

The Huntress is enjoying this, and I love it as well, the focus, the goal, the simplicity of everything. I don’t need to think about Greer and her mess of a life, or wonder if I’m good enough to be an Avenger. This is survival. Kill or be killed. The Law of the Jungle. And I am TIGRA, the top of the food chain.

He’s slowing, his sides heaving, and his breath steaming in great gusts. The end is coming, and he knows it. He stunk of fear at first, but that’s bled away. He accepts it, and like any warrior, he turns to fight, lowering his head, and brandishing his magnificent antlers—an array of sharp points pointed my direction. I drop in front of him, my heart pounding more from exhilaration than exhaustion, into a crouch. My tail is lashing in excitement. The snow is crunchy and cold on the pads of my feet, and the only sound is his panting.

Maybe a signal passes between us, I’m not sure, but he charges. We both know it’s his last. I lightly spring over his lowered head, claws digging into his hide for purchase, and then, like my namesake, I bite down, fangs penetrating and as soon as I crunch into his vertebrae, I yank my head. With a clean snap, it breaks, and suddenly he’s stumbling down, dead before he hits the ground.

Silence falls around us.

The Huntress is satisfied.

I throw my head back and ROAR! A roar of victory, a roar as old as time itself, and all around me I can hear the prey animals breathing a sigh of relief—they know I’ve killed and I won’t be killing any more tonight.

I don’t know what my fellow Avengers would think. Bobbi’s never seen this side of me. Would it offend Steve’s sensibilities? I can’t answer that and as I bend down to my kill, tearing it open, the Huntress hungry for meat, for the choicest parts of the kill, I crouch in the moonlight, in the bloody snow, stripping flesh from the deer and filling my belly. 

The Huntress is satiated. I’M satiated, because as much as I try to keep that side of myself separate, when I’m being honest with myself, She is a part of me. A part I have to learn to accept.

I sigh and spring to a low hanging branch to get out of the snow. Lazily, I lick the blood off my fur, cleaning myself. It’s sticky but it tastes good, and inside, the Huntress is ready for a nap.

The trip back is slower. I have time to think, and I don’t necessarily like everything in my head.

I slip inside the mansion and can tell people are awake. I’m not surprised when I find Cap in the kitchen. He’s in his PT outfit: black windbreaker type pants, a long sleeved grey shirt with ARMY printed across the chest (his chest fills that out deliciously) and a reflective belt.

“Hey Greer,” he says, flashing dimples.

“Hiya Cap!” I answer back, giving him what he expects, my Tigra voice.

“Just now getting in? Must’ve been a wild night,” he says, conversationally. I flash a grin at him.

“Yeah, you know me, party girl.”

He laughs, and I imagine running my tongue over his abs.

The Huntress enjoys more than just blood.

Steve goes to run and I hear other members of the Avengers stirring. Bobbi is awake, so I steal silently into the quarters she shares with Clint, who is still snoring.

She jumps when I crawl under the blanket with her, and she hisses, “Dammit, Tee, you’re freezing.”

“No, I’m warm, but my fur is cold from being outside.” She grumbles, but pulls me close anyway.

“You’re lucky you’re so soft and that you warm up quickly.”

I bury my face into the nape of her neck and start purring.

I don’t think she catches it when I answer.

“I AM lucky.”


End file.
